


Chomp

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barely a fic, Barely a ficlet, Biting, Fëanor and Nerdanel have too much fun parenting, Gen, Wee!Caranthir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caranthir gets kicked out of rec league soccer for excessive biting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chomp

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This is a brain spasm that happened as a result of a one-off sentence in [Chapter 16 of DWMP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2106315/chapters/5077706) that referenced Caranthir getting booted from rec soccer as a kid. So I wondered how that would go down...

After all the shouting from the coaches and the other parents had subsided somewhat, Fëanor and Nerdanel put him in the van and drove him home. It was a very quiet ride, his brothers unusually subdued, watching him with wide-eyed, and – it had to be said – rather impressed expressions. 

Once back at the house, they sat him down in the living room and had a very serious talk about good sportsmanship, and the importance of respect not only to your teammates, but to your opponents. Biting a rival in the face, they said, was not what good athletes did. Bringing passion to your game was admirable, they said, but there were limits. The pros don’t bite, Fëanor told him, and then amended, well, not if they want to stay in the game. 

Caranthir stared at his feet, and asked, “Is it true they’re not letting me come back?" 

Fëanor and Nerdanel exchanged looks. 

“Yes,” said Nerdanel at last. “They did say that. But we’ll see what we can do, sweetie.” 

“Second chances are just as important as good sportsmanship,” said Fëanor quietly, laying his hand on Caranthir’s shoulder. “Perhaps the league will demonstrate both.” 

(They didn’t, of course, and Caranthir never played rec league soccer again. “Who needs ‘em?” Celegorm had said loudly, to this. “What good is a sport with no tackling?”)

 

-

 

Later, Caranthir crept down to the kitchen, secretly anxious that his parents were horribly disappointed in him.  _Maybe they’ll put me up for adoption_ , he thought, remembering the threat Celegorm had once leveled against him in a fit of pique.  _Maybe they’re discussing what to do with me right now, and I’ll find out that…_  

But instead, what he heard was his parents laughing. 

Uproariously. 

He peered around the kitchen door. 

Nerdanel was propped against the island, shaking with laughter. “Oh,” she gasped. “ _Biting_  – I almost died.” 

“They do tell them they can use anything but their hands,” said Fëanor, fairly. 

Nerdanel cracked up again. “But biting the goalie – in the  _face –_ Oh, Fëanaro, he is  _so_  your son.” 

“My son?” protested Fëanor, but he was chuckling. “Come now, Mahtan’s told me of your tee-ball days…” 

“I was promised that story would never be held against me!” 

“Given his parentage, perhaps a bit of athletic violence is to be expected,” said Fëanor musingly, his eyes twinkling. “Poor kid.” 

Caranthir slipped back upstairs, and once back in his bed, listening to Celegorm’s even breaths from the other side of the room, he buried his face in his pillow, and smiled.


End file.
